Forced to Marry My Late Mother's Husband

The box went on the table between the salad plates. Aurora saw Ruby did not react. She was the only person at this dinner who didn't already know what was inside.

Freya Blake never raised her voice. The penthouse dining room overlooked Manhattan. The air smelled of roasted duck and plum reduction. It was thick and heavy.

Freya folded her napkin parallel to her plate.

Two envelopes rested inside the antique lacquered box. One cream. One deep red.

The room stayed silent. Ruby reached out first. Her fingers slipped over the cream paper. She opened the flap and slid out the contents. A deed to a private Aspen estate and a senator's engagement ring. She showed nothing. She already had what she wanted.

That absence of tension made the air around Aurora sharpen.

"Take yours," Freya said. "Refuse, and I will ensure your name is blacklisted in every professional kitchen from New York to Paris by morning."

Aurora reached for the red envelope.

The paper felt heavy. The wax seal broke with a sharp snap. She pulled out a single embossed card.

Julian Oswald. Cedar Falls.

That was all it said.

Aurora stopped breathing. Her chest locked.

This was not a stranger's name.

The arrangement was supposed to be a transaction. A name she did not know, a city she had never visited. She prepared for a stranger.

Freya had not given her a stranger.

She stared at the black ink. She had spent two years deliberately avoiding those letters.

"Well?" Freya asked.

Aurora forced her lungs to work. She kept her face blank. She was twenty-two and knew how to hide things.

"He married my mother," Aurora said.

The words sounded flat. They needed to sound flat.

"He is Miya's widower," she added. She needed to say it out loud.

Freya took a slow sip of her wine.

"The arrangement proceeds in three days," Freya said. "The financial terms are finalized. You will reside in Cedar Falls for two years."

"My mother loved him," Aurora said.

"And now he requires a wife," Freya replied. "He has a five-year-old daughter. The child hasn't spoken a single word or eaten a voluntary meal since your mother died in that fire. She is completely broken. You will be her caretaker."

Aurora did not argue. Arguing with Freya only made things worse. She picked up the red envelope, slid the card back inside, and stood up.

"I will pack," Aurora said.

She walked out of the dining room. Her heels struck the floor hard.

At one in the morning, Aurora sat on the edge of her bed in Brooklyn.

Her suitcase was open on the floor. It was empty.

The red card sat on her mattress.

Julian Oswald.

Forty years old. Silver at his temples. The way he moved around a kitchen with absolute authority.

She remembered the intense heat of his kitchen. When she was eighteen, he made her breakfast every Sunday. He kept a deliberate distance, but she remembered the exact size of his hands. She remembered the one time he reached past her for a coffee cup. His chest brushed her shoulder. A two-second touch that made her skin burn hot.

She left the day after Miya's funeral because she wanted him to touch her again. She called it a healthy decision back then.

She had not processed anything.

She looked at the card again. She knew what it said since before she opened it.

She did not have to go. She had this apartment. She could vanish into the city.

At three in the morning, she bought a bus ticket.

She was not getting on the bus because she had no choice. She was getting on the bus because his name was the only thing her body actually wanted.

Twelve forty-seven in the morning.

The bus doors hissed open. The air in the Pacific Northwest was sharp and freezing.

Aurora stepped down into the dark.

The gravel road crunched under her boots. She knew this road. She pictured it before the bus headlights washed over it.

The farmhouse sat at the end of the drive. The porch light was on.

She walked toward it. Her bag felt heavy against her shoulder.

A man stood on the porch.

He wore a grey shirt. He held a dish towel in his left hand. There was a smear of white flour on his jaw.

Julian Oswald.

He saw her face and went completely still. Not a flinch. A total freeze. His dark eyes locked onto hers, heavy and intense. The physical space between them suddenly felt suffocatingly tight. He had the expression of a man who calculated the exact probability that she was never coming back.

They stared at each other through the dark.

"You came."